Lost in the Storm
by Brissi
Summary: A quick one-shot about a time around Christmas, when out favorite high-functioning sociopath is still a boy.


Thoughts

Whirling through my head

I can't…

focus

Can't read the words written on my mind. Because every time I try...they blur and skitter away like cockroaches when the light is flipped on. Every once in a while I catch one and force a meaning out of it, but the phrases I find make no sense. Nothing I do can do can translate the alien words. What is wrong with me that I should be so scattered? Is this how ordinary people feel every day of their lives? Is this what it feels like to have a brain that isn't racing out of control?

No.

People couldn't be this stupid, this agonzingly slow. Something is wrong with me, and I can't beat a cause out of my flitting thoughts. They float getnly past my eyes, tiny white whisperes like ash tumbling down around me. I lift one hand to snatch at them, but they always dance out of reach or vanish once they touch my skin.

My skin. Is something wrong with it to? I do not recognize the long, pale figners spread in front of my face, for they are not pale any longer. The knuckles of the hand are burnt red and cracked, like a hot brand had been pressed there and the blistered flesh left to fester. The tips of the fingers are a deathly pale color with the faintest blue tinge beginning to creep up each digit. Even as I flex my fingers and the alien hand responds, I do not feel my own fingers move. Curiously, I bring my hand down to touch my face- the alien hand responds- and I numbly feel the distant touch. A cloud of fog suddenly interrupts my view and I blink slowly in subdued surprise. So this is all real, and not just some horrible nightmare in which I am slow and stupid. I frown; I almost wish it was. My thoughts stagger on to the next question in line, circling around it for a while before steeling myself to engage it.

What has happened to me? I feel… strange.

Detached

Numb

It is hard to think past the crippling, paralyzing fog in my head, but I begin to remember. Christmas, was it, that Mother was warning us not to miss? Well that is ridiculous, because how could one miss Christmas? No, there was something else, but that is beyond me. I cannot remember… where is my brother? He… he ran from, no, _to_… where? Where were we running to? He left me, I can recall that much. Iasked him, shouted for him to wait, but he kept running. But he wouldn't. Why wouldn't he wait for me? It is too much effort to wonder at that, so I don't. Instead I painstakenly turn my head to look around.

My cheek crushes white ash beneath it and it quickly turns to water, making me frown. That is impossible. My stunned brain knows that much. I touch the alien hands to the white ash, then watch it slowly melt and run down over the cracked knuckles, all the way down my arm. So that means… it is snow. But why is it warm?

Hypothermia.

The word slams through the haze that fills my mind, sending shards of thought spinning. I know I should be alarmed, that I should try to stand. I need to get the blood flowing back to my fingers before they turn black and die. But the snow is so warm and comfortable, such a contrast to the home I knew. If I stay here, I won't ever be called stupid again. I won't have to compete with my brother at every step, because I won't be alive at all. How horrible would it be to let go?

I hear words, shouted, and gradually they arrange themselves to form a sound. Two syllables, quite familiar, and the word comes from many mouths. I cannot will myself to answer, cannot even muster the energy to listen. So I don't, and I feel myself begin to slip away. My hold on reality is weakening, nearly gone, and vivid colors begin to dance like colorful ribbons in front of my eyes. I stare as they twist about to form the face of… my brother. His mouth works furiously, like he is shouting something at me, but I don't hear much. His is probably angry that I couldn't keep up.

"Sorry," I slur, surprised but not particularly concerned that I can't speak well.

I try to tell him that I had been too tired, and that I had tried my hardest, but I am distracted as more wriggle around to form my mother. Is she here to scold me as well? That isn't like her. I stare blankly at her, and after a second I realize that she is crying. I frown and reach up to touch a tear as it rolls down her face, but I don't feel when the aliens hands make contact. My mother takes the hand in hers and clasps it to her, and her face blurs as she whips it around. I wish she wouldn't move so fast, because it makes me dizzy. I try to tell her so, but my lips won't work and it comes out as a moan. More ribbons and my father is suddenly standing there.

"Da…"

He nods, bends down, and suddenly the world tilts sickeningly as I am yanked up into the air. I make a pitiful sound in my throat, already longing for the warm snowbank I had been rudely plucked from. My father ignores me and begins taking long, rocking steps that only make the world spin faster. I close my eyes to try and regain my equilibrium, but after only a second my father shakes me, roughly. I remain in the dark until he repeats the gesture, at which point I reluctantly allow the world back in.

"I'm tired," I mumble, hoping he will set me down and leave me be.

"No, you've got to stay awake," he says, his voice sounding far too loud as it echoes in my head.

"Let me sleep," I whimper, ashamed of the quaver in my voice. I am shivering, that is all.

"I can't, son," he says, panting now. His breath steams as it exits his mouth, feeling hot and heavy on my face. "We have to get you warm."

"I am warm."

My father does not respond to this and only walks faster. He is trying not to jostle me, I can tell, but he also tries to hurry. I do not know where to, though. My eyes flutter closed again, but my father does not notice this time. I do not open my eyes until I feel something strange and unwelcome: heat. I look around, expecting to see the inside of an oven, but all I see is the kitchen flying by, soon rearranging itself to form the stairs, then my room. Immediately I am into my bed, ruining the smooth plane I had so meticulously made that morning. I try to complain, but my throat won't work. It is shuddering and convulsing uncontrollably, like a child before their nightmares. I close my mouth to cut off the stream of noises flowing from my throat. It takes me a moment to realize my father has left the room, and I wonder where he has gone. I cannot wonder long because I can barely hold a thought, let alone hold my eyelids open. I gaze numbly at the back of my eyelids until I fall asleep, perhaps for eternity. Who can tell?


End file.
